


Lion in Chains

by cthchewy



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark!Claude, Dubious Consent, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Poisoning, Slavery, Worldbuilding, probs too much politics and not enough sex lolol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:02:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24147835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cthchewy/pseuds/cthchewy
Summary: Dimitri woke up from Duscur on a slaver's ship bound for Morfis.  There, he has waited for years for an opportunity to return to Faerghus to exact his revenge on those who murdered his family.  Amidst the news of a war rising to the east, Dimitri becomes inextricably bound to the youngest prince of Almyra.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 39
Kudos: 180





	1. Chapter 1

The server slops barley porridge into a wooden bowl and hands it to Dimitri, who nods in curt thanks before taking his meal to his usual table. He keeps his head down so as not to draw more attention than necessary. It’s already hard to blend in, being the only Fodlaner in these stables.

Morfis is the crossroads of the world, or so they say. The City of Illusion. Prosperous and hedonistic, bustling with life and magic. Traders from lands near and far convene here to sell their wares, but as Morfis is a free city beholden to no empire, the lawless come too. Things that would be considered black market goods in other nations are sold openly here, including slaves of all races, all colors. Even so, the brightness of his hair is still a bit of a rarity. Inviting attention without having any social standing for protection is not conducive for survival. He has worked to make himself appear more forgettable through his mannerisms, if nothing else.

Valdr is already halfway through his meal when Dimitri approaches. The man from Sreng has been Dimitri’s closest companion these past few years, even though they shared little in common at first. They arrived together on the same boat and were sold together to the same gladiator school. The people of Morfis have no concept of the differences between Faerghus and Sreng – they say they don’t care to distinguish barbarian tribes from one another – so Dimitri and Valdr were both simply labeled Northmen and expected to stick together. By some dumb luck, it turned out that the language of Sreng was close enough to the dialects of northern Faerghus that his nursemaids spoke, and Dimitri found he could understand a word or two. Still, years later, he speaks Srengi haltingly, like the five year old he was when the maids last spoke to him so informally.

They eat in companionable silence until the newest member of their group scurries over with a knowing look on his face. Trygg, also of Sreng, had just recently graduated and been brought into the stables. He was smaller and more lithe than most others who had been sold into this line of work, and his youthfulness had caught the eye of the Master. It’s often Trygg who is sent out into town on courier duty, and he delights in bringing back news of things slaves don’t often have the luxury to know.

“Some big shots are coming to buy soon,” Trygg says. “High quality soldiers are in demand, a lot of us will be going east.”

“Yeah? What’s the occasion?”

“Lahora and Almyra look about to go to war.”

Dimitri looks up from his bowl then. “Why?”

“Whaddaya mean why? What would any of us know of the reasons of kings?”

Valdr chuckles and strokes his full beard. “Dima’s a _deep thinker_. Got the heart of a _philosopher_. Might’ve even been born a chieftain’s son with how much he pays attention to politics! If you know anything, you should tell him. Otherwise he’ll sulk all day.”

“Tch.” Trygg clicks his tongue. Still, as a smaller man who has to use his wits to survive as a gladiator, he understands the importance of information. “They’ve always disagreed on religion, so maybe that. Lahora’s been raiding and crusading in the name of their god. And Almyra’s got a million princes who have to prove themselves in battle. I hear they like to stir up shit when it gets too quiet. Usually they’d go west, but Fodlan’s closed off even more than usual these days.”

Dimitri mutters a quiet thanks. If these rumors are true, he has a lot to consider.

For years he had dreamed of various ways of escape. At first he thought he could flash his Crest to show his importance as a hostage. He’d thought perhaps the Master could be swayed to ransom him back to Fodlan. It earned him a week of beatings and solitary confinement. When he learned some of the language of Morfis, he tried again.

“I am a prince,” he said.

The Master scoffed. “You _were_ a barbarian Northman. Now you are a slave. Know your place, or I’ll have you sold to work the fields instead.”

There were no beatings that time, but the Master put him on guard duty when he next went out into the city, despite the fact that Dimitri was but a scrawny child still in training, obviously not yet tested in real combat. Dimitri remembers it vividly, the first time he was allowed outside and could see the wonders of Morfis up close – the towering white spires and islands drifting in the sky, uprooted from the earth through magic. They ascended to the highest island, and from there he could see the whole of the oasis city and the shimmer of the barrier that kept it safe from the desert sands around it. There were colorful markets, sprawling estates, the coliseum he would fight in once he’d finished training… and all of these shrank to the size of toys below him. Yet still the sense of awe paled to the first time he set foot in the Floating Palace, and the first time he saw the ruler of Morfis, the man known to his people only as The Dragon.

It was a ceremony held only once a decade. All the members of high society gathered at the palace to watch The Dragon bless his Chosen One. The Dragon was a tall, thin man with skin like smooth onyx and pale green hair flowing down to his knees. He was ageless and ethereal, and he looked through the gathered crowd without seeing them, as if life were but a dream. Once he stepped down from his ivory throne, he lifted the chin of the Chosen who knelt at his feet. His movements were slow and deliberate, grace incarnate, so it was a shock when he suddenly slashed his own wrist and smeared the blood all across the kneeling man’s face before feeding it to him.

More than the blood, the ritual disturbed Dimitri with its intimacy. Watching it felt like intruding on a private moment between lovers. And when it was over, the Chosen stood and flashed his newly acquired Crest to the cheering crowd. The shape of it was one Dimitri had never seen in Fodlan, but it was a Crest nonetheless. Shivers went down his spine at the knowledge of what this might mean for his own bloodline.

On their way back to the school, the Master said to Dimitri, “Perhaps you are the Chosen of another Old One, and that makes you a prince in your homeland. That means nothing to us here, where only The Dragon’s mark holds sway.”

So Dimitri’s dreams changed. He thought if a merchant would buy him as a guard, maybe he could escape into the seas, maybe he could find a way to work for passage back to Fodlan. If an Almyran general were to buy him as a soldier, maybe they would send him to fight at the Locket and he could defect into Leicester to seek shelter among the nobles there.

But to be sent even further east was a nightmare, and one that had a higher chance of coming true than his foolish dreams. He had been clinging to such a small sliver of hope for such a long time, even when he knew Lahora had the largest market for Morfis slaves. If he ended up sold to a Lahoran, he might truly never see home again.

Valdr taps his hand, breaking him out of these thoughts. Dimitri lets go of the spoon he was still holding, only belatedly realizing that he’d snapped it. Heat rises to his face as he finishes the meal with the stub. He’ll have to carve a new one for the cooks, or pay for it from his earnings.

“Dima, my friend, if you only _fought_ with that sort of intensity in the arena! Could’ve made a fortune by now! You’d be given wine! Women!”

“It’s difficult to spare my opponents if I give into bloodlust,” Dimitri says.

Trygg sneers. “You’re _trying_ to spare them? By the gods.”

Valdr shakes his head. “Heart of a philosopher, soul of a saint… and stuck here in hell with us poor violent bastards, ha!”

* * *

Trygg’s information was good. A few days later, they’re all gathered in the training grounds, but no one is sparring. Instead, they’re lined up by experience, stripped to their smallclothes and oiled to show off their musculature. Private buyers had come before, in the years Dimitri has been here, but it was never something on this scale. It must be someone very important.

Dimitri stands waiting with the others when the gate to the training grounds opens and the Master leads the procession inside. There’s a general and a nobleman up front, followed by guards and advisors. Dimitri squeezes his eyes tightly shut for a second to keep the feeling of utter relief from showing on his face or in his posture. The general and his guards are wearing greens and yellows – Almyran colors.

“My men are the finest in Morfis,” the Master is telling the general and his noble companion, likely one of Almyra’s ‘million princes’.

The general is a large tower of a man, chest and arms thick with muscle, multiple scars across his face. He strokes his dark beard in contemplation. “Hmm. What’s our budget for this?”

“Flexible, General Nader, though I would recommend not more than half of our cargo.”

The slaves are mostly too well-trained to show emotions when they haven’t been given leave to do so, but there are still a few sharp intakes of air from the least experienced of them when they hear the name Nader. The Undefeated, in the flesh.

Nader laughs. “Pah! Half a ship full of gold and jewels could still more than buy out your entire stables and set you up for a nice retirement, Slavemaster. How should we go about this, boy?” he addresses the prince, who has yet to speak.

In contrast to the general, the prince is young and lightly built. He is dressed in fine silks and keeps his hair tied in a headwrap. He looks directly at the line of slaves when he speaks, and does so at a volume that all of them can hear. “Almyra does not make a habit of importing many foreign slaves, and I for one am not fond of the institution of slavery at all. Those who are chosen will find it much easier to earn their freedom under my rule… if I find them worthy.”

Another shift occurs in their ranks. Suddenly everyone is standing much straighter, chests puffed out. Even Dimitri feels the urge to win this man’s approval. He’s clever, Dimitri thinks, to dangle the prize of freedom in front of them.

“Please, feel free to examine them to your heart’s content,” the Master says.

Nader and the guards begin methodically looking them over, at times calling for training swords to be brought and for certain men to demonstrate their prowess in light sparring. Meanwhile, the prince wanders about somewhat lackadaisically down the line. His posture is relaxed, though his eyes are piercing sharp. Too clever by far.

Dimitri waits toward the far end where the less experienced warriors are placed. He isn’t all the way down the line, but he only has a year of mediocre fights under his belt. All wins so far, but too few deaths or gruesome maimings to really sate the bloodlust of the crowd. He expects Nader will eventually come to select some of the younger men near where he stands. However, it isn’t Nader who approaches him, but the prince.

The prince’s eyes widen and he grins when he sees Dimitri. “Found you!” he whispers under his breath in a sing-song manner. It’s said so quietly that Dimitri isn’t sure he heard correctly, and it’s not helped by the fact that the Almyran accent is just different enough to be hard to understand.

Seeing the opportunity to make a sale, the Master gives his pitch. “A wise choice, my prince. You have a keen eye. This one has the blood of dragons.”

The prince circles him. The appraising gaze sweeps over Dimitri from head to toe, then slowly, agonizingly slowly, drags its way back up each inch of Dimitri’s exposed body until they are locked eye to eye. “I know.”

When Nader finally makes his way over, his men trailing behind, the prince turns to address them. “This man. I want him,” the prince says. “He’ll be my personal guard.”

There are frowns and protests from some of the officials who accompanied the two, and these murmurs escalate to shouts soon enough after the prince makes yet another flippant declaration.

“Well, I’ve made my choice, I think we’re done here.” He beckons for Dimitri to follow, and it looks as if he would march right out if he weren’t blocked by an advisor who ran in front of him in a panic.

“My prince, most of our generals refuse to leave the service of your brothers and cousins. We are in need of more warriors capable of supporting our young recruits if we are to hold the eastern border all on our own.”

“Oh? Well, in that case let’s buy them all, shall we?”

“Prince Khalid! We need more, but not that much more! Not just one man, and not all of them, be serious!”

The prince, _Khalid_ , chuckles. “I’m very serious. It’s not whether we need them or not, it’s whether Lahora needs them. Or rather, whether they think they do. The battle begins here before any swords are drawn.” He taps his finger twice against his temple. “You _do_ know the Lahoran religion demands the lowest ranks of their army be filled with slaves, and that they like to buy new blood before each campaign?”

His plan is ingenious, in a way. Dimitri thinks it through and finds it bold and completely, well, insane. It’s nothing his ancestors would ever have done for Faerghus’ military campaigns. Certainly no normal strategist would think this way, that with war looming on the horizon, rather than quickly preparing defenses and supplies it would be a good idea for the commander to instead sail across the seas on a leisurely shopping trip… But by doing so, he sends the image of himself as calm yet unpredictable, and at the same time he taunts them with the knowledge of and disrespect for their traditions. By demoralizing the opponent with such a show as an opening move, they’re more likely to become either too furious or too cautious.

“That’s my little tactician!” Nader slaps Khalid on the back, which causes the prince to stumble a bit. “I knew I picked the right brat to back for the crown!”

Prince Khalid orders the Master paid in trunks of gold coin, and then leads all the gladiators out of the now empty stables. “But you,” he says to Dimitri, “walk up in front with me.”

Dimitri has no idea how or why he has caught the eye of the prince, but he nods. “As you wish.”

They parade down the streets this way, attracting attention even in a land as loud and colorful as Morfis – a foreign prince, his guards, and fifty-some oiled gladiators marching with their heads held high. Rather than head back toward the docks, they go to another rival stables, and Prince Khalid yet again buys them all out.

His poor, exasperated advisor shouts, “Is this why you insisted on traveling with so many empty ships?!”

And oh, how that would have seemed so eccentric before they knew of Khalid’s plan. Khalid only laughs.

They buy every single gladiator in the city-state of Morfis, men and women alike, right from underneath the noses of their enemy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea for this started with: what if Patricia and Cornelia were murder wives? What if Patricia – Anselma, really – was the first Flame Emperor that Dimitri saw at Duscur?? She and Cornelia are tasked with killing her second husband and stepson for the slithers, and that’s why she was planted in Faerghus. Edelgard is taken from her to ensure cooperation. They go through with the mission so that she can get her daughter back, but Dimitri unexpectedly survives…
> 
> Instead of disappearing, Anselma drugs and kidnaps Dima to try to use him to bargain for El, like gimme my beloved daughter I’ll trade you this poor sap who everyone thinks is dead and he’s got a rare crest too. Except, because they’re murder wives in this universe, yeah? Because of that, when things don’t go their way Cornelia helps Anselma out-slither Arundel/Thales and they rescue El and blow up a bunch of shit along the way, pretty much destroying half the slithers from the inside, but because they never actually went through with the trade, now they’ve got an extra Dima while they’re on the run Bonnie & Clyde style. So they’re like fuck Lambert he died too quickly let’s make his son suffer the way he should have and sell him into slavery, maybe make some extra cash so we can disappear and raise our daughter in a hole somewhere.
> 
> And because the slithers are a disorganized mess from that, they don't assassinate Godfrey, so Claude never has the opportunity to escape to Fodlan. He kinda... snaps a bit from all the bullying, which would have gotten worse as competition for the crown heated up.
> 
> That’s it, that’s the backstory. I may or may not flesh that out in the future. Plot bunny free to a good home.


	2. Chapter 2

“Stop!”

“Come back!”

One of the slaves pushes his way out of the galley and dives off the side of the ship as soon as there’s word of an island in the distance. The Almyran soldiers on deck ready their bows to shoot the man in the water, but Prince Khalid motions for them to halt.

To the slaves who ran to halt their companion, Khalid says, “If you run, I will not stop you, though be warned that pirates have infested these waters, and if you are caught again by others, your fate is in their hands. If you stay, you will become my soldiers, with all the benefits and responsibilities that entails. Perform well, and in as little as a month’s time you will be considered free men. The coin you earn will be yours to use however you like when you are off duty. Ah, but if you become my soldiers, yet later betray me, _that_ is death. Choose wisely.” He turns to one of the guards behind him. “Have this message sent to those on the other ships as well.”

Dimitri doesn’t quite know what to make of this strange mercy, doesn’t know if it means Khalid is too kind or only pretending to be so for some unknown goal. He knows even less when he is led to the prince’s private cabin and asked, “What do you think, did I do the right thing?”

“My lord, I… I would not presume to tell a prince how to lead.”

“You will advise me to the best of your ability when I ask it of you.”

Dimitri thinks on the problem. He wants to say ‘You did it because you have no use for traitors and fools’, but the years of conditioning glue his mouth shut. No matter how defiant he had been at the start, there’s a part of him that fears the whip now. There’s a part of him that knows when lords and ladies speak sweetly to slaves it is to trick them into acting above their station and thus give a reason for punishment.

Khalid doesn’t pressure him, but continues to keep him close. Dimitri sleeps in a small cot in the prince’s private cabin. Two days pass at sea, and another from the port city to the capital.

When they arrive at the capital and march up toward the palace, it’s yet another spectacle in the streets. The other slaves peel off with the soldiers to their barracks, to be given their new assignments. Dimitri, as usual these days, is held back by Khalid’s hand on his wrist. He manages to catch Valdr’s confused glance and shrugs back.

Within the inner gates, the Almyran palace is as luxurious as any Dimitri has seen. It’s a sprawling thing, a white and gold maze of courtyards and gardens. Parts of it are built into the side of the mountain behind it – caverns for the wyverns that freely circle above.

Below, the wyverns’ cries are met with clucks and shrieks of exotic birds strutting about the gardens. A beast roars, but the sound is more sorrowful than frightening.

Upon hearing it, Khalid grimaces. “Umar has captured another pet. It’s distasteful, the way he treats them.”

Nader frowns. “Perhaps you should mend things with your brothers and cousins. I’m getting on in years, nowhere near as strong as I used to be. I wonder, sometimes, if I hadn’t pledged myself to you, would it have taken away the other princes’ excuses not to lend any men to the cause?”

Khalid’s face shows no reaction, but his shoulders stiffen. He does not meet Nader’s eyes. “You made the right choice, old man. Any help they sent would be daggers at my back. They’d choose to shame Almyra with a military loss, with our towns razed and people killed, if it meant I’d be out of the way.”

Dimitri is staring too intently now, having been drawn into the conversation. The thought of such princes, who care so little for the people whose protection they have been charged with, offends the Faerghus knight within him. Khalid must notice, for he smiles indulgently as he begins to explain Dimitri’s new duties as a manservant and guard.

He keeps his eyes and ears open as he acclimates to palace life. It’s not so hard when his new master insists on keeping his company throughout the day, leading him about to meetings and into town. Dimitri is taken to be bathed in the most luxurious bathhouse he’s ever seen. Fragrant oils are rubbed into his hair and skin, and then he is wrapped in gauzy fabrics that should soften him, but instead make the scars and burns across his body all the more prominent. He almost doesn’t recognize himself when the bath attendants are done with him.

Dimitri settles into his tasks. He is only given light errands at first, and more often than not his duties are merely to accompany Khalid, “to deter assassins”. One of the things he notices first is that each wing of the palace is a household in its own right. Each household does its chores and takes its meals separately. When Dimitri tentatively asks another servant why this is so, she tells him it’s because the queen consorts are at each other’s throats, as per Almyran custom, and no one would trust a meal cooked by another queen’s chef. They only eat together when the king calls for a feast.

The king’s chambers are in the center. To the south, his siblings and their families, when they visit. To the east and west, his first and second wives and their children. A third wife, who lost the favor of the king years ago, has been exiled to a secondary palace in a lesser city. Many of the older princes have also left after being given provinces to govern on their own – a consolation gift from the king for deeming them unworthy of the crown. And the north wing, the wildest of them, near the mountain and the wyverns, is for his fourth wife and her only child, Khalid.

Within the north wing, Khalid’s smiles are bright and sunny. His servants speak to him informally, and he dines with them as equals. When Dimitri brings him meals, he insists they eat from the same plate. Perhaps it is an act of distrust, but Khalid’s charm turns it into… something else. When Dimitri shows reluctance at sharing a plate with his new master, Khalid lifts his chin and feeds him plump dates and fragrant stuffed grape leaves straight from his fingers.

But as soon as he leaves the north gates, the light leaves his eyes even as he continues to smile, and Dimitri begins to hear insults spoken against him, always whispered at a volume meant for him to hear. They call Prince Khalid a coward, a weakling, a rot that must be cut out. They call the fourth queen a witch who has ensnared their beloved king and poisoned his mind. She stays with him in the central chambers most nights, rarely returning to her own quarters, and this favoritism for a woman who apparently brought neither land nor wealth into their marriage has turned into resentment among the court.

Dimitri begins to piece together Khalid’s story. The youngest son, bullied by his older brothers and cousins, claws his way up the hierarchy of princes until he is given command of the latest military campaign. But the other princes, in their jealousy, refuse to lend any aid. Indeed, it seems they are attempting to sabotage him at every turn.

It would be a lie to say Dimitri doesn’t think of making a run for it, that he doesn’t think of simply disappearing into the crowd when sent on an errand in town. Perhaps he should have gone off the side of the ship when given the chance, but betrayal becomes less of an option with each day that passes. The more he learns, the more he feels it is his duty to at least see this war through, and then perhaps his debt to Khalid will be repaid. Despite his better judgment, he begins to get… attached.

A week passes in this manner, then two.

“You’re bored, aren’t you?” Khalid asks. “Doing nothing but standing around me, looking intimidating? Here, Dima, look over these and sort them in order of importance.” He hands Dimitri a pile of letters, some of which were delivered by his spies just this morning.

“I…” Dimitri feels his face heat up in embarrassment. “I can’t read.”

Khalid goes still and doesn’t respond. Dimitri thinks perhaps now is when he will show his true face, perhaps now is when the beatings will finally commence. But Khalid silently leaves the room, and when he comes back, he has an armful of books and papers. He shoves aside some clutter on a low table and drops the stack there.

“From now on, you’ll train with Nader and your old companions in the morning. At night…” Khalid pats the books, the top of which looks like an Almyran syllabary.

In the short time that he has known Khalid, Dimitri has resigned himself to being pulled along like a kite in a storm. For some reason, Khalid _wants_ him to learn of the political currents in Almyra, to analyze and advise. Who would train a slave to be an advisor? Only Khalid, whose mind runs circles around his court. There’s a tightness in Dimitri’s chest at the thought.

The day before they are to set off for the east, many of the palace’s inhabitants come to bid Khalid goodbye. Among those is Prince Umar, who drags his snarling beast behind him. It’s a lion, half-starved, half-crazed. It paces and paces the ten feet its thick iron shackles will allow.

“I will bring offerings to your grave when you fall,” Umar says.

Khalid scoffs at his brother. “When I return victorious, all of you will be exposed as frauds and cowards. You’ve never been able to outwit me anywhere, not in lessons nor the stateroom, and certainly not on the battlefield.”

Prince Umar sneers. “Bold words for one who has never even commanded troops in a real battle. Try not to piss yourself first.”

“ _You’ve_ never done anything but hurled rocks at Fodlan’s Locket like a scorned lover tapping uselessly at a maiden’s window!”

Guards on both sides widen their stances, readying for a fight while the princes stare each other down. Eventually, Umar turns to leave. “Hmph. Let us go elsewhere. The stench of cowardice is too strong here.”

That night, Khalid returns to his chambers freshly bathed. They take tea together as Khalid looks over Dimitri’s progress in learning his letters. It’s coming along slowly but steadily, and he has already packed some of the childrens primers for reading practice.

Khalid gazes off into the distance, lost in thought. When he comes back to himself, he says, “If I had a lion in chains, I would train it to fight beside me. Had you seen one before today?”

Dimitri gestures to a slash along his bicep. “I fought one, in the arena.”

“And before then?”

“Before…? My homeland is too cold for such beasts.”

“Hmm. Strange how the lion is the symbol of Faerghus when the beasts do not roam the land there.”

Dimitri struggles to find something to say, some way to respond. His mind has gone blank.

Khalid looks bemused. His brows arch knowingly. “I know who you are, Dimitri.”

It’s been so long since he heard his mother tongue that it takes a few moments to register that Khalid had not spoken in Almyran. Dimitri jolts, looking to Khalid for answers but seeing only that his eyes are hooded and lips curled up in a sensuous smirk. He leans forward to run a hand over Dimitri’s chest, tracing the curves and lines, the many intricate gold and silver rings teasingly cool against heated skin as those clever fingers dip into the grooves between muscles.

“Dimitri. Alexandre.” Khalid kisses the shell of Dimitri’s ear, feather light. “Blaiddyd.”

It has been so long since he heard his own _name_. ‘Dimitri’ is difficult to pronounce in the common tongue of Morfis and Almyra. He’s been Dima for the past five years. And now this. The acknowledgment makes his heart sing at the same time that it pounds in uncertainty.

“How?”

“Almyra is Fodlan’s closest neighbor, in a sense. It’s the longest border Fodlan shares with any nation. Goods and people still flow in and out despite the Locket. Is it so strange to think there could be a Fodlaner in the Almyran royal court? _You’re_ here, after all.”

It dawns on him then. ‘Coward’ is what Almyrans call the people of Fodlan. Dimitri first heard ‘coward prince’ as an insult directed at Khalid and thought it was because he used to advocate for peaceful solutions and could more often be found with a book in his hand than a sword. Now he understands the term was meant to disparage the youngest prince’s foreign blood.

“Are you…?”

“Tell me, did you ever win the favor of a lady, perhaps after you bested the lion?”

The change in subject throws Dimitri into confusion once more. “Y-yes, but I’m afraid I disappointed her with my performance, ah, after.”

“I find that hard to believe, unless she wasn’t your type,” Khalid says, pressing ever closer until their bodies are flush against each other. “How do you feel about men? About… me?”

There’s no need for a response. Khalid finds his answer when his hand finishes its path down to the hardness between Dimitri’s legs. Tomorrow they march for war. Tonight, Dimitri allows his master to peel back their clothes and press him, playfully, onto the plush bed.

Khalid wraps strong wyvern rider’s thighs around Dimitri. He must have prepared himself in the bath, yet he gasps as he sinks down onto Dimitri’s length and, trembling, leans down to steady himself. Dimitri twines their hands together and surges up for a kiss. Their lips meet for the first time as their bodies rock together shallowly.

When they break apart, Khalid sits up. He licks his lips and groans decadently. “The last man I laid with tried to kill me in my sleep.” He brings Dimitri’s callused hand to trace the pale line running across his throat. “But you won’t.”

They find completion, like this, with Dimitri’s hand on Khalid’s neck.

Umar is found dead the next morning, throat torn out by his lion in one last fit of rage before it succumbed to the maltreatment. Or so they say.

“Lions are cats, did you know?” Khalid says as they ride east. “And certain types of garden flowers are poisonous to cats. Some give them a rush of courage before all their organs shut down… like the blue lilies that are so popular in the palace these days. Umar really shouldn’t have dragged his pet all through the gardens like that.”

* * *

The initial Lahoran campaign is over within a year, a resounding success. Khalid’s detractors have nothing left to say. They cannot deny his talents. They cannot even disparage his choice in bedmates when Dimitri proves his worth in battle.

Khalid rises to the position of crown prince. Any other prince might be content to rest on his laurels after securing such a position, perhaps use his new powers to punish those who stood against him in the past. Khalid instead chooses to fight onward, now with the full support of the Almyran army.

The slaves bought in Morfis have long since become free soldiers, and those who chose to leave were not punished, as promised. Dimitri, too, thinks perhaps it is time for him to leave. He has no words for what he feels for Khalid, and he will never forget the nights spent in his arms. But Faerghus awaits. His homeland calls for the return of its rightful king.

However, before Khalid can finish the preparations to head out once more, he is again visited by some of his brothers who offer their false platitudes. They offer him a bottle of fine rare wine to celebrate his accomplishments, open it in front of him and pour him a cup to make sure it is to his tastes. But when Khalid takes the goblet, he pauses.

Dimitri and the other guards stand at the ready to test for poisons. They have had incidents in the past, but would they truly be so bold as to hand him poisoned wine in full view of so many others?

Khalid smiles and lets out a small sigh. “Actually, we should drink together, to celebrate our newfound friendship. Let bygones be bygones.” He gestures for a servant to bring the bottle and personally pours cups for the other princes.

When Khalid downs his wine without asking for it to be tested, it is a strong gesture of trust. And with so many onlookers, the other princes cannot refuse to follow his lead lest they look like cowards in comparison. They follow suit.

Khalid’s brow has already begun to bead with sweat when he quickly pulls Dimitri with him back to his chambers. “I have been poisoned,” he whispers. “I’ll need you to look after me tonight.”

A strong fever takes hold that night. Khalid shivers and cries out in pain as his whole body is wracked with convulsions. The Crest of Riegan, gifted from his mother’s blood, flashes over and over, brighter than the dim lighting of the room. Dimitri tends to him, wiping away the sweat with cool cloths and holding him through the worst of it. He has never seen Khalid so vulnerable before, not when his entire body is bared or even when wounded from battle.

At the height of his delirium he begins to laugh and sob all at once. “Powder,” he says, “rubbed on the inside of the cup. A purple sheen, I saw it. Not in the wine, so they drank it too… But I, but I poured for them!”

“Say no more.” Dimitri silences him with a kiss.

A slow and painful week passes. Even with the finest physicians, Almyra loses three princes to poison. All who drank the wine perish... Except Khalid, who is moon-blessed and has always healed quicker than most. It was still very close.

Their plans for further warfare are suspended for a time, and so are Dimitri’s plans to leave. Khalid is still weak from the poison, and Dimitri cannot in good conscience leave him when he is in such a state.

* * *

Another year passes, and another. They fight their way to the capital and win. Khalid installs Nader as the new king of Lahora, now a vassal state to the growing Almyran Empire.

This time, when they return, Khalid takes the crown. He is ruthless in his purging of those who once scorned him, but the nation prospers and he is loved for it.

“What if I wish to leave?” Dimitri asks.

“Then you are free to leave. You may follow the trade routes to the Locket, and from there…” Khalid shrugs, not meeting Dimitri’s eyes. “From there you make your own way.”

That should be the end of it. Khalid will need a queen soon, won’t he? There’s no place for Dimitri here, not anymore. His excuses have run dry, and Faerghus still beckons. He shouldn’t even be asking. It should be a statement of fact, but part of him is hoping Khalid will find some new excuses for him. Because they are both broken men, but when they are together, perhaps it is not so noticeable.

“And if I stay?”

“If you stay…” He looks up, almost shyly. A tentative spark of hope peeks through his expression. “If you stay, we will cross the Locket together. You and me, and the full force of the Almyran Empire. Imagine the look on my cousins’ faces when I put a crown on you, King of a United Fodlan.”

“You’ve been planning this for years, haven’t you?”

“Oh, of course. From the very first time I set eyes on you.”

Dimitri swallows, though his mouth remains dry. His dreams had never been so big. All he dared to want in the past was to rule Faerghus in the memory of his father. The chivalrous thing to do is to decline Khalid’s offer, and to suffer the building of an army on his own, though the chances of success are small.

But Khalid’s dreams are so big they engulf the sea and stars, and there’s a part of Dimitri that loves him for it. A part of him thinks he’ll never feel passion for another as strongly as he feels for Khalid. They could stay this way if…

“If I stay, I will be yours.”

Khalid clasps their hands together. He presses close until he can rest his head on Dimitri’s shoulder. “Yes, my lion.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and then they were murder husbands  
> D:


End file.
